A Woman's Estate

by Roberta Gellis

  “You goose,” he said, smiling. “If Goulburn can take his wife, why should I be without mine?”

  “I thought they might consider a person born in America not…oh, I don’t know…”

  “Nonsense. You may be a bit prejudiced, but there can be no question of your loyalty,” Arthur said.

  He hugged Abigail again as she burrowed her face against his shoulder, not realizing that his remark had reminded her of her painful and uneasy conscience. If not for that, she might have urged him to accept, now that she knew she would not be left behind. Instead, she asked, “Have you decided what to do?”

  “No, I wanted to talk to you. I wrote to Roger that I would think about the idea, but even with the best will in the world to help, I believe I would be useless. You are quite right that the unofficial position will be awkward, especially since I am known not to be a favorite with the government. Worse yet, Liverpool and Bathurst will be responding to suggestions from Castlereagh, who will be sending instructions from Vienna, quite unaware of anything I have said or done.”

  When he said that, Abigail pulled away so she could look at him. “But Castlereagh will know that you are with the peace delegation because Roger will be going to Vienna soon and will tell him,” Abigail pointed out, then paused doubtfully and added, “unless, of course, Castlereagh dislikes you even more than Liverpool does and—”

  Arthur laughed. “Actually Lord Castlereagh rather likes me, and I him. You see, I have always supported the war against Bonaparte, even in opposition to my party, and Castlereagh used to be Secretary for War…” He let his voice drift off, looking into the distance, and then his lips twisted. “Oh, damn Roger!” he exclaimed. “He’s too clever by half. I see what that devious legal mind of his has worked out. I’ll murder him.”

  “What do you mean?” Abigail asked.

  “Liverpool needed a reason for sending Roger to Vienna that would not offend Castlereagh, who’s a touchy devil—and even if he were not, he wouldn’t like the idea that Liverpool had sent someone to keep an eye on him. I am to serve two purposes in Ghent—as Roger’s reason for being in Vienna, that is, to tell Castlereagh why I had been sent to Ghent and explain my opinions on America. And Roger does feel that peace with the United States is necessary, although he may not agree with your notions of what the terms should be, so he hopes I can do something to help.”

  Abigail was in a quandary. She wanted very much to go to Ghent, but she knew that urging Arthur would be the wrong move. First she must discover some logical reason for a rapid right about-face from hinting he should refuse Liverpool’s offer to demanding that he accept it.

  “Let it go for tonight,” she said, kissing him on the neck. “Perhaps you will get some news or something will happen in the next few days that will push you one way or the other.”

  “A most excellent idea,” Arthur agreed, lifting his head so that his chin would not impede the path of her lips.

  One arm supported her, and he began to pull at the tie of his belt with the other. Abigail hastened to help, taking advantage of the loosening of his robe to extend her explorations. Her tongue found his nipple, moved from one to the other. They were not as sensitive as hers, but sensitive enough so that he shivered and sighed, sliding down flat and carrying Abigail with him. When he stroked her, he realized he had not removed his robe, but by then he felt it would be too much trouble. It had fallen open when the belt was untied, and it did not impede Abigail’s hands or mouth. Her nightdress was another matter, but it was of fragile construction and did not interfere for long.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  When Abigail suggested that events might determine whether they went to Ghent, it almost seemed she had had the ability to predict the future. The very next day there was news from America. In two battles on Chippewa Plain, General Brown had defeated a British force and taken their guns. However, Brown could not hold his ground, and British expectations of sufficient military gains to make the United States agree to their terms were not significantly dimmed. Nonetheless, Abigail was encouraged. Although she did not yet want to urge Arthur to go to Ghent, she began to prepare to leave Stonar. Her first step was to ride to Rutupiae and tell Mr. Jameson to let the tenants know that anyone who wished to speak to her would have to do so in the next week or two because she expected to leave the area soon.

  There were more people than she expected on the following Tuesday, and she had to send several away with the promise that she would see them on Thursday. Thus, although it rained hard Wednesday and was still dark and misty Thursday morning, Abigail decided she would not skip her promised visit. Being unaware of what she had said to her bailiff, Arthur argued that it was ridiculous to go out in such weather. It took Abigail a while to convince him she must go without explaining why, but he agreed grudgingly that if the tenants came, some of them having walked long distances, she must honor the appointments she had made.

  By the time she won Arthur’s reluctant agreement, Abigail was later than usual, and she rode at a spanking pace. As a result, GoGo slipped on some wet fallen leaves as she turned on the main road just past the gatekeeper’s lodge. The mare managed to keep her balance, but Abigail had a fright and realized that there might be other spots equally treacherous. She moderated GoGo’s speed and began to keep a careful watch on the road ahead, but the mare had not been exercised because of the rain, and she was eager to go. Insensibly the pace increased again and was back to a fast canter as they came up the long drive to Rutupiae Hall.

  Although she was not totally aware of how fast she was going, Abigail was paying strict attention to the surface of the drive, particularly at anyplace where it was edged with trees or ornamental bushes that could shed leaves. Thus, she was startled by the movement of a peculiar, thin shadow that stretched across from a handsome oak to a stand of rhododendrons. Instinctively she pulled up on the reins, but GoGo was moving too fast to stop. Suddenly the shadow was under the mare and her front legs were somehow tangled by it so that she was falling forward. With a cry of surprise, Abigail threw herself out of the saddle toward the grass verge of the drive. GoGo went to her knees, neighing in distress, floundered, found her footing again and bolted.

  Because she had been subconsciously prepared for a fall, Abigail was not really surprised. She landed hard, but on the grass with her hands extended to protect her, and even as she fell, she was aware that she had been ready and would not be injured. Her concern was for her mount, and Abigail was struggling up and turning toward the road seconds after she landed, only to be tripped so that she almost fell again. Without thinking, she grabbed at the unstable object that had lifted so suddenly under one of her feet. It moved once more in her hand, and then she screamed as loud as she could and screamed again and again.

  The rope, for it was a rope that had been strung across the road and pulled tight to trip the mare, went slack. The screams choked off as terror closed Abigail’s throat. She began to back away from the bushes, where she could hear twigs breaking and see something dark moving. Run, she thought, run—but she could not because her legs had started to shake. Defensively she raised the riding crop that was still hanging from her wrist, and then in the distance there were voices. The hope of help released the paralysis of her voice, and she screamed again and then once more as the branches closest to her moved.

  Still, no one emerged from the bushes. There was a pull on the rope, but Abigail’s hand was frozen to it. Though the tug jerked her forward, she could not let go. Terror lent her strength. She pulled back and struck out viciously with the crop, though she had no target. An obscenity was shrieked in a voice so distorted by rage that it was unrecognizable, but the rope came loose into the road, and a fierce crackling began in the bushes. This time the sound marked a retreat.

  Abigail knew that she should run down the line of rhododendrons to try to see who came out, but she could not force herself to move. The reaction of the physical shock of falling and the emotional shock of fear at las
t overcame her, and barely conscious, she sank down on the road. Unfortunately, the men who reached her first did not know her well. They were tenant farmers, who had come in from a side gate in the park and had been making their way to the house. Having seen GoGo flash by without a rider and then hearing screams, they had expected to find a woman who might be badly hurt. Thus, they assumed Abigail was hysterical when she tried to explain about the rope and the person who should be pursued. She did not blame them, because she was crying and knew she was not making herself clear, but the delay ensured that whoever had tried to kill her got safely away.

  This time there could be no doubt in Abigail’s mind that there had been a deliberate attempt on her life. She knew one was seldom killed in a fall from a horse, but it did happen. And from what had occurred after she fell, she understood that her death was not to be left to chance. If GoGo had not slipped and she had not been prepared, she would probably have fallen more heavily and painfully and would have been left shaken and relatively helpless for a while. In those few minutes, whoever had stretched the rope across the drive expected to emerge from the bushes and either break her neck or crush her skull with a stone. Probably the latter, because a stone could be artfully arranged to testify to accidental death.

  “But why?” she asked Arthur furiously. “Whom have I ever hurt? Who could profit from my death?”

  They were together on the sofa in Abigail’s private sitting room with Arthur’s arm around her shoulders. He had not let go of her from the moment he took her into his arms when he arrived in Rutupiae.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. His face was still rigid with shock. “At first I must admit I thought the attacks were meant to remove Victor so that someone else could inherit the Lydden estate, but harming you could not advance that purpose—at least…”He shook his head and then said softly, “If I could guess, even guess, I would take my guesses apart with my own hands until I found the answer.”

  His voice, although soft, was so cold, so deadly, that though she knew it was not directed at her, Abigail shuddered. Arthur tightened his grip on her and began to reassure her that she was safe, but she shook her head.

  “I’m not frightened now, Arthur, but you are too angry.”

  “Too angry? Someone tries to kill my wife, and I am too angry?”

  “Yes,” she said, “because it must be a—a lunatic. There can’t be any profit in killing me. I can only think that it must be someone who—who resents the fact that I love you. Perhaps that first shot at Victor was an accident. It could have been, darling. Then the incident at the mill happened after we became lovers, and the other attempts were after we were married.”

  Arthur stared at her, closed his eyes for a moment, and then looked off into space. “It’s true,” he admitted, “but if you suspect one of my…er…past loves, I just cannot believe it. Beloved,” he said softly, “I always chose with care, women who would not be hurt, and except for a few who were greedy and were not satisfied with what I was willing to give, I have always parted on good terms.”

  Abigail looked slightly startled. “Oh, I never thought of them. What I meant was that some man might have believed what I offered to him as casual courtesy meant more. And then, when I chose you, believed I had injured him or played him false and decided to punish me. Am I being conceited?”

  Now it was Arthur’s turn to look surprised and then thoughtful. “No, you are not being conceited at all. In fact, in a totally crazy situation, that does seem to make some kind of sense. Was there anyone?”

  She shook her head. “No, or if there was, I never noticed. The chances are that it is someone I would never think of needing to keep at arm’s length—a boy or a shopkeeper to whom I was polite. And of course, I never had eyes for anyone except you, Arthur. From that very first quarrel we had about impressment—”

  Her voice was cut off as Arthur enveloped her in his arms, holding her tightly against him. Abigail could feel the slight tremor of his muscles, and she freed a hand and stroked his face.

  “I can’t bear it,” he said. His voice was flat, but Abigail knew it was because he was fighting to keep it steady so as not to frighten her more. “Abigail, I simply cannot bear to let you out of my sight, and yet—”

  “I cannot live a prisoner. I would go mad,” she protested, but she spoke gently, aware of his agonizing frustration at his inability to protect her. “And it would not do any good,” she added, her voice trembling a little with the realization of what she was about to say. “You see, whoever it is no longer needs to try to pretend that an accident has taken place, because the presence of the rope betrayed intent to do harm. No one could protect me if—if he should shoot from a distance.”

  There was a little silence. Abigail drew in her breath as her husband’s grip tightened painfully, glanced at his face and then away. She was almost more frightened by the naked rage exposed by Arthur’s expression than by the idea that someone hated her enough to want to kill her. Anger and fear for her had peeled away the layers of urbanity imposed by her husband’s training and exposed the primitive violence, the desire to rend and tear, only there was no one to attack.

  “Arthur,” she whispered, “you are hurting me.”

  “My darling, I’m sorry.” He relaxed his grip and bent to kiss her hair. “If only I could take you away—” And then, suddenly the look of rage and frustration was gone. Arthur’s eyes lit. “I’ll tell you what we can do, Abigail,” he said, his voice eager and excited. “We can go to Ghent. It’s not a large city, nor the type that attracts visitors looking for a good time. And there’s an English garrison there, so I can learn if any Englishman arrives after we do. Meanwhile, Bertram and Jameson can scour the neighborhood for anyone who has been acting peculiarly or has a history of any kind of eccentricity.”

  Relief made Abigail burst into tears. She had not realized, until Arthur offered an escape, how frightened and trapped she had felt. But when her fit of weeping was over, her spirits bubbled up into excited exclamations about seeing Europe and questions about when they would leave and what they should take.

  To that question Arthur replied, laughing, “Money. Anything you neglect to bring can be purchased for good English gold. It is not so far from Ghent to Paris, and peace negotiations are likely to be a leisurely activity for an unofficial advisor. We can take a side trip or two for shopping.” Then he grew more serious. “As to leaving, I think we should go as soon as possible and as privately as possible.”

  The final words sobered Abigail too. “I must tell the children, and should I not also tell Griselda so that— Oh heavens, I must send to Rutupiae and ask how Griselda is. I seem to remember someone saying she had fainted when she heard of my fall.”

  “Fainted?” Arthur repeated. “But why? She cannot have thought you were injured in the fall.” He hesitated and then said slowly, “It would be better, I think, not to see Griselda before we leave and not to tell her anything.”

  “Arthur,” Abigail cried, “you cannot think Griselda had any part—”

  “No, no,” he soothed, “I am sure Griselda is fond of you and would not deliberately hurt you for anything in the world, but she is not the wisest or strongest willed person.”

  “And she has been behaving very strangely since we came back from London,” Abigail mused. “She seems to feel guilty about something—and frightened too, and the more I try to soothe her, the worse she gets.” Abigail sighed. “I think you are right, Arthur. I will just send a note saying that we had to leave in a hurry for some political reason or other and that I am not sure where we will be staying but that in an emergency, Bertram will know where to reach us. But what about the children? I don’t feel I can go without telling them.”

  “Of course you must tell Daphne and Victor,” Arthur agreed, “but I think we should stop and visit each of them so you can explain fully. They might feel put out if they believed we were taking a pleasure trip and not including them. If you tell them the purpose is pol
itical, they will be delighted to have escaped coming with us.”

  “Are you sure you have never been a father?” Abigail asked teasingly. “Your understanding of children is suspiciously acute.”

  “It is my memory that is acute,” Arthur replied, drawing himself up in a playful pretense at offended innocence, but when Abigail stuck out her tongue at him, he laughed and explained. “No, it is true. My parents did not subscribe to the general opinion that the less one sees of one’s partner in life or one’s children, the better. They liked to be together and to have us with them, and I suppose that was admirable, but the result was that all too often my vacations were spent in a damned dull city while my papa performed some service for his country. There were times when I bitterly envied my friends who were neglected by their parents.”

  Although Abigail did not believe Arthur had really resented traveling with his parents—his deep affection for his mother and the fondness with which he spoke of his father were clear—she recognized that his advice was valid. And three breathless days later when they arrived at Westminster, the technique worked perfectly. Victor expressed his sympathy for his mother and stepfather for having to go to Ghent and did not exhibit the slightest regret at missing the opportunity to go with them. Of course, Abigail had described Ghent as a small, dull town in Flanders—which Victor associated with weaving and wool from his geography lessons. Then too, the excitements of the new term, the first in which Victor was not a “new boy”, had not yet had a chance to pall.

  “We will be back before vacation,” Abigail assured him, “and we will stop to visit on our way back. If you need anything or have any questions, write to Bertram.”

  Then she leaned forward to kiss him goodbye, and Victor started to rear back, caught Arthur’s eye, sighed, and suffered the embrace. Arthur shook hands gravely, knowing that Victor’s “grown up” dignity would be much damaged by a hug from his stepfather. Later, however, he had his chance with Daphne, who bounced into his arms and squeezed him tight when he promised to bring her a large parcel of the lace made in Ghent. She had been less put off than Victor by her mother’s description of their goal and purpose, but Arthur’s offer did much to assuage her disappointment at being left behind.